


The Walker

by edy



Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world that's been thrown into a rapidly decreasing population of the living and the alarmingly increasing one of the walking dead, Gerard Way manages to find some sort of light in it. But when his light flickers out, and his insomnia comes back from many, many restless nights, he isn't too sure he'll be able to survive much longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walker

**Author's Note:**

> request: of insomnia and hallucinations

I make sure there are enough bullets in my gun before propping up my feet on the coffee table in front of me.

"Are you okay?" the brunet beside me asks, reaching over and lightly poking me in the thigh. He gestures toward the rifle lying across my lap before going back to poking me in the thigh.

I nod. "Yeah, Brendon. I'm fine. The gun's fully loaded—surprisingly."

Brendon Urie nods back and leans toward the arm of the shitty black futon we're using as a couch. "Man, I would kill for some Red Bull," he says to no one in particular. "Or some Starbursts. Fuck."

I take this time to dig out my sunglasses from the cushions of the futon and smash them on my face. My vision is only slightly distorted. Brendon looks like he's got a bad case of sunburn—especially around his eyes from his red frames—and the glass door we're standing—well, _sitting_ —guard of is a dimmer shade of the color maroon. Yeah, nothing too serious.

Brendon groans. "I'm so fucking hungry, man," he exclaims, stretching, lifting his arms above his head to wave his pistol about and to expose the pale flesh of his belly. "I could really use some—"

"—Red Bull and Starbursts. Yeah, yeah." I sniff. "Be quiet. They could be anywhere, y'know."

Brendon straightens up, flipping out a switchblade that was, most likely, stored away in the back pocket of his girl jeans that does nothing to help his apple ass.

I push my sunglasses back up the bridge of my nose. "You have an apple ass."

"Thanks," he says. We stay quiet, and he sets the handgun beside him. "Wait here. I hear something." He stands up, tightly holding onto the switchblade, as he moves toward the backrooms of the apartment complex we're stationed. Now that I think about it, I can hear something rustling around back there, too.

I grip my gun and curl my toes, slowly moving my feet to rest on the tile floor. I let out a soft breath and crack several tense joints in my neck and back. Pushing my black hair off my forehead, I tilt back and sniff.

I smell death, like, an abundance of it. I turn around and start to panic. Brendon should've yelled if there were more than he anticipated. If he thinks he can take all of them… I groan and stand up, dropping my gun and checking in my back pocket for my own switchblade. When I feel the plastic handle, my panic and worry only lowers by a bit, but I still go forward, muttering under my breath all the obscenities and insults I can call Brendon for failing at one simple task of being a watchdog with me.

But when I find him crouched over a convulsing body with the dirty knife he came with tossed aside like a cheap whore, I grow wary. "Brendon?" I ask, and he turns to stare at me, and then I catch a glimpse at the body, and my whole world comes crashing down. "Frank?"

Frank Iero is lying on the floor, a fresh stab wound in his forehead, right in the center. Blood is profusely squirting out of the small hole that, no doubt, Brendon had made. I drop to my knees and set my hand on Frank's chest. I shake just as fast as he does. "Oh, Frank," I mumble, reaching up and ripping off my sunglasses. I throw them against the wall and let out an awkward hiccup that only makes me sound totally fucking stupid. I lean forward and press my forehead against his slowly paling cheek. "Oh, Frank," I repeat.

He tries to say something back, but he can't. He just stares at me, hazel eyes wide and about to drown in his tears. I reach out for him. I push his hair away from the wound and cry, the tears dropping into the injury. He winces, and I wince, too.

Brendon's fingers graze across my spine, attempting to comfort. "Gerard, I—"

I sit on my heels and rotate toward him. "What did you do?" I yell. "He wasn't one of them!" I wave a vague hand to the direction of the entry space of the shop we were in before. "Why did you do this?" I want to launch myself at him, want to claw out his eyes, but I don't. I return to Frank and hold his hands and cry.

Brendon moves back over to me. "He was, he was bitten. There was… a walker back in the bathroom, where he was sleeping, and, and he, he killed it, but, but." He lowers his head. "His leg."

I glance down at the appendage Frank was supposedly bleeding from, and I almost vomit. In my sudden curiosity, I must have overlooked it. I turn back to Frank's face and squeeze his hands. "And you stabbed him," I point out.

Brendon stays silent for a moment before saying, "I wanted to put him out of his misery."

"You didn't even successfully kill him! You didn't even get to his brain stem!"

"I, I, I'm _sorry_ , Gerard."

Glass breaks in the reception area. I frown. "You go out there and take care of them, you fucking asshole."

He gets up and grabs his switchblade. "You have to… y'know."

"I know," I say.

"I'll give you one when I'm—"

More glass shards break, and Brendon races out.

"He should die," I tell Frank. I like to think he nods back, but he stays still, breathing rather hard. "You're going to die."

He shakes even more, chest starting to heave. His eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. I grip his hand tighter. "Frank." His eyes slowly close, and he whines, and my eyes cloud up. I hold him and sob into his neck. I kiss his neck and face and mouth and everywhere I can reach, and rain starts falling overhead. The ceiling makes it sound like tiny little gunshots, one right after another as the rain picks up speed.

"It's raining, Frank," I say to him, kissing his ears. "Hear it?" I smile. "We, we made love in weather like this, Frankie. Do you remember? Brendon, Ryan, Mikey, and the others were all out there," I say, pointing behind me with a thumb. "And we were in the bathroom, using spit as lubricant and toilet paper to clean up. Remember?"

His cheek and lip muscles move ever so slightly, and I smile once more. "Do you?" I ask, and the muscles twitch even more. I frown. It was a shit memory anyway. "But now, I'm stuck with Brendon. What am I gonna do?" I hug him. "I don't want to leave him on his own if I die first. He's only eighteen. Eighteen's too young to be tossed out in conditions like this."

The rain falls down faster, and I'm very relieved it's heavy because Brendon could be getting slaughtered out there by God-knows-how-many walkers, and I don't have to hear it.

Frank's breathing becomes congested, like blood has made its way into his nasal passage. "Frank?" He doesn't respond. "Smile for me, Frank. Please."

Frank's facial muscles move, and I honestly think he's going to pull off an actual smile, but my hopes are crashed like a butterfly in a small child's destructive hands when he sits straight up, mouth dropping open to let out a cascade of blood and entrails and vomit that smells like death. He's dying—from the inside out.

The bite on his leg is getting worse. It looks like skin is dripping off as easily as candle wax, and I want to lean in and flake it right off, like I would do to a dry patch on my arm, but I stay stationary, watching with horror as his arms wrap around his thinning body to hold himself together while the only substances in his body are being poured out at the speed of a waterfall.

Then, he raises his head, and his eyes widen, and I look over, and Brendon's there, dressed from head to toe in a blood bath. "There were three, but I got them all without firing a gun." He sits next to me, being careful to stray from the way of vomit. "How is he?"

Frank collapses on the ground, and his chest rapidly heaves again, and he looks over at us, wanting us to _do_ something, but we really _can't_. 

Brendon pulls the pistol from of his belt loop and slides it over to me. I touch the metal barrel, not wanting to actually think about it being there. So, I sit, and Brendon and I watch the life leave Frank's eyes.

It's like a child coming home from the carnival, and they're sitting atop their father's shoulders, and they have a shiny red balloon tied to their wrist with a careful knot their mother had done. But nobody can be perfect, and the knot comes undone, and the balloon just lifts off in the air, and the child cries and tries to reach for it. And they desperately try to keep their eyes on it, but nothing can last forever, and the red balloon is soon lost against the blue sky and the fluffy, white clouds.

Just like the child, Brendon and I are left crying with no possible way of ever being fully cured.

He slides the gun toward me one last time, and the metal chills my hand. I don't want to shoot Frank—not yet, but Brendon reminds me of my duty, and I frown and grab the gun and just stay there.

"C'mon, Gerard. He's going to turn any minute. It's best if we—"

"—I know, Brendon," I persist, looking down. "I just _can't_."

Frank's body slowly starts to move. First, his legs, and then his torso give a big heave, and he's sitting upright. His head spins around on his spine until it's turned on us. He lets out a grunt, a groan, and then he's crawling, one arm outstretched to grab onto anything it can latch onto, and the other moving across the floor, helping him scoot. His fingers curl and uncurl, and I note that his skin is slowly starting to peel and turn a gray color with a green tint to it, like he's sick.

Brendon jumps and shoves me to the floor in a sudden panic. "Kill it, kill it, kill it!"

I fight the urge to rear back and kick Brendon between his legs. I mean, sure, I know what he means by "it", but that _it_ is still Frank, and I can't just kill him.

Frank continues to advance toward his next meal. His mouth opens and closes, and it sounds horrifically disgusting. His skin is decaying away at a rapid pace, and the repetitive motion of his jaws does it no justice. The flesh connecting the upper part of his mouth to the lower is coming unhinged, and his tongue flops out between the lips and threatens to stretch and poke into my mouth.

I bounce back and reach over, touching his cheek, trying to stop him, but his face just seems to slide off my hand, and when I pull my hand back, the skin I had touched and pushed has seemed to fall right off into a pile of yuck on the floor.

"Why haven't you killed it yet?" Brendon asks from his spot in the corner, hiding behind his knees in fear.

"It's Frank, you asshole!" I grab the gun and point it at Frank, who is still attempting to crawl over to me. My arm shakes.

"It's not Frank anymore, Gerard! It's one of them!"

Frank gurgles and falls, arms not able to hold up his own body weight. He continues to advance—a lot slower, though—like a caterpillar across a leaf.

" _C'mon,_ _Gerard_. If I can put down Ryan, then you can put down Frank!"

And that's when I feel like I have enough strength to pull the trigger—

—and miss.

"You ass!"

Frank's jaw is completely gone, and it's not just one part of it or even a fraction—it's the whole fucking jaw. Lips and all are gone, and the only thing still intact to hang out of the bloody hole is his tongue. It just hangs there, like an old man's sagging genitals, and I almost gag. Frank stares at me with wide eyes as if to ask for help, but that's impossible. His eyes read nothing because they've cleared over with a white film, and he's only concentrated on getting his next meal.

But deep down, I know he's asking for help.

So, I raise the gun right up to his forehead, rest it right against the stab wound Brendon had caused. It's at an angle. I'm sure I'll get the brain stem. I whisper an "I love you", and Frank responds with an attempt to grab my face and a loud screech that makes saliva and blood and skin fly and land on my person.

"You're not Frank," I say more to myself than to the walker in front of me, and then pull the trigger.

I want to believe that life disappears from his eyes, but it doesn't. Nothing happens, and I find that entirely depressing. Nothing occurs—nothing at all. Frank sort of jerks forward from the force of the bullet and just… falls to the floor. I look at his body, at the bullet hole, and then at Brendon. He gets up, takes the gun from my hand, and stuffs it in his belt loop. "We'll throw the body out the back door. I think the rain will cover up our movements and that gun shot."

I nod in agreement, and we lift Frank, shuffle toward the rear end of the complex, and toss him into the rain.

It only really hits me I've lost Frank forever when his body leaves my arms. Brendon has to hold me back, so I won't run outside and hold him.

It even hurts Brendon to look out there because all the bodies of our friends are out there somewhere, whether they're still together as one being, or if they're slowly decomposing. We had to put Ryan out here a few weeks ago, so his corpse is still very much recognizable. I hear Brendon whine a bit, but I don't want to bring it up when we head back into the building after I calm down.

I change the futon into a bed while Brendon goes to throw a sheet or something over the window the three walkers had broken to get inside. "We'll move upstairs in the morning," he tells me, gesturing toward the ceiling. He crawls into the makeshift bed and lies down. "I kinda figured the lobby was making us too vulnerable."

I look ahead at the tile ceiling. I frown. "Let's move now." I sit up. "There's no guarantee that they"—I gesture outside—"didn't hear the gun shot, and you putting up that sheet? That has our stench all over it. We need to move now. We're practically baiting them."

He silently nods, and we pack up our bags, leaving the futon there. There are bound to be beds in the actual apartment units. We have out our knives, just in case, but as we maneuver up the stairs, toward the third floor—as a precaution—we find that there is no need to. The place seems free of the walkers, and when we manage to get inside a unit without disturbing the lock too bad, we think we're in paradise.

It has a sitting room that's able to hold a TV, a few chairs, and a couch. It even contains a bookshelf that I note to look through later.

It also has a fully functioning kitchen and bathroom, which means that we'll be able to take showers and finally feel refreshed. The refrigerator is empty—go figure—but the pantry is stored with plenty of different kinds of cereals, snacks, water bottles, and—

"Starbursts!" Brendon exclaims, grabbing the box and cradling it close to his chest.

It even has a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and lots of fluffy pillows. That's the plus side, but the down side is I'll have to sleep with Brendon again. I don't mind it as much as I did before, but it's still obnoxious and tiresome whenever you wake up in the middle of the night because someone's ass is on your shoulder, and they're snoring like a hibernated bear and farting like an old man that lost control of his anal muscles. I don't want to tell this to Brendon, though—it's too embarrassing.

I run my fingers across one of the kitchen counters, admiring every one of the appliances that we'd never be able to use due to the noise. I look back at Brendon, who's still clutching the Starburst box like a life preserver. "Why don't you take a shower?" I suggest, giving him a thorough look up and down. "You're covered in brain matter."

He carefully sets down the sweet box and makes me vow to not touch them before leaping into the bathroom. I hear him shout something about fresh towels, but I don't act on anything. When I hear the shower water start to run, I make myself useful and try to walker proof the house.

I relock the door, and I even budge a chair under the doorknob, so no one would be able to turn it. I jam each of the windows and throw black sheets over them, courtesy of the hall closet toward the back of the unit. Once I'm done, I sit down in the common room on a chair closest to the book shelf. I turn and gaze at it, at all the literature I could read.

I hear footsteps, but it's just Brendon. He's fully dressed in an extra set of clothes we've managed to grab at a boutique someplace before dashing to our current location. He scratches the back of his still-damp head and looks around. "I can see now," he says, waving a hand toward his glasses, which are now clean from the blood and guts that were tainting them. I nod to acknowledge his voice, but I don't look at him—just continue to focus on the bookcase.

He must have rushed over to the Starbursts because the next moment, I hear the skidding of wet feet across hardwood floor, a frantic grab for a box, and then a thud that signals that someone had fallen to the floor. "Ow, ow, ow," he whines.

I smirk. "You okay?"

"No." He's up in a few seconds, though, letting me know that he truly is okay, and he goes over to sit next to me. He rips open the box, peels the wrapping off an individual candy, and pops it in his mouth, munching. "So, are you doing all right?" he asks, sucking on the Starburst, rolling it around with his tongue.

I stare at him. "Yeah, I'm fine." I move to run my fingers through my hair, but I stop when I feel a glob of brain and jaw on the top of my head. I cringe. "Ew."

Brendon nods, pops a yellow one in his mouth, and points. "I saw that, and I was gonna tell you, but these Starbursts—"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, pushing his shoulder, as I get up and maneuver into the bathroom. I take a quick shower and change into a fresh set of clothes. As I smooth out the wrinkles in the t-shirt, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look terrible. I had lied to Brendon. I don't look fine in the slightest.

I poke a high cheekbone and pinch the bags under my eyes. I pull at my crow's feet and groan at my chapped lips. I curse at my reflection and stomp from the room. I sit next to Brendon, who is now guzzling down a water bottle that was stored in the pantry. "Hey, Gerard, how are—?" he begins, turning his head to look at me and managing to drip a fountain of water down his chin in the process. I smile from secondhand embarrassment and wipe it away with the bottom of my tee.

"What is it?" I ask, pulling my hand back and touching the wet spot on my shirt, hoping it'll dry soon.

"How are you dealing with… all of this?" He screws the lid back on the bottle to put a cease to anymore shenanigans that could be pulled. He leans back, setting the water on the floor by the couch and Starbursts box. He grabs a pillow and holds it close. "Talk to me."

I frown. "I don't want to talk to some eighteen year old."

"And you're twenty-eight." He frowns back. "Are we not shouting back each other's ages?" I groan, and he pouts. "Look, Gerard, I know it's hard—I understand that. You know what I had to go through whenever Ryan got bit."

I nod because I do remember, and it was really fucking tragic. Brendon wouldn't leave his side. He feed him and bathed him and nurtured him just like a little nurse, in hopes of stopping the bite from infecting and spreading to the rest of his body. He later told us, after we had gotten rid of the body, that he prayed every day for God or whoever would listen to him to come down and help Ryan through this. He really didn't want him to die or even become one of them, but not even an hour later on the third day, we heard screams and a gun shot. Brendon had walked out of the bedroom, covered in a similar blood bath as today, and he was sobbing, like a fucking newborn. "He, he begged me! And I didn't want to, but he grabbed me and yelled at me to shoot him, and he just shook, and I shot him, and I didn't want to!"

He fell down right there, and Frank comforted him, while I struggled to dispose of the body outside with the rest of our friends.

Then, not even a month later, Frank's body had joined them.

And I find myself crying equally as hard as I had done when I found him lying on the floor, at Brendon's feet.

Brendon's face falls, and he tosses aside the pillow, scooting over to me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. "Hey, hey, Gerard. Don't cry." He pulls me in and hugs me. He starts to rock us. "Everything's going to be okay, Gerard. Okay? Believe me on that, all right? Everything's gonna be fine."

"But, but," I start. "It's just the two of us. We'll never survive out there. We'll eventually run out of supplies, and we'll have to go out there, and we'll get killed, and—"

Brendon pushes his hand against my mouth. "No talking like that. What would Frank say?"

I lower my head. "Frank would kill me."

Brendon nods. "Exactly." He stands, and before I can ask what he's doing, he leaves, walks down the hallway, and turns into the bedroom. I stay seated on the couch, knowing he'll come back in a few minutes. When he does, he has a small CD player in hand—probably run on batteries, since he's not holding a wire or anything that'll help it power up. He sets it on the floor, in front of the couch, leaving a few feet of space between it and the piece of furniture. He pushes down on the "play" button before spinning around, catching my eye, and holding out his hand. "C'mon," he urges, curling his fingers a bit as if he's beckoning for me.

I hesitate at first, but I get up and walk over to him, grabbing his hand.

He takes a step back, and then another step, and then we're slowly turning as the CD player starts to play a soft tune on the piano. Brendon sets a hand on my waist and grips my hand as he steps back, steps back, steps forward, spins, and repeats. I follow the best I can, my eyes staying on the floor, watching our feet.

Then, I see him, and everything seems all right in the world.

I twirl out of Brendon's arms once he goes to spin us, and I land safely in His hold. He rubs my back, and I snake my arms around His neck. We turn, then, and when I look in His eyes, I melt because I see us and all the things we promised we were going to have. I see a big fancy wedding and champagne bottles and all of our friends congratulating us as we dance our first dance together as husbands. I see us hitting the bed covers of the five-star hotel we've managed to scrap up enough money to stay in. I see Him looking into my eyes and telling me that everything's going to be okay while He pushes into me. I see my heels digging into the mattress as He pulls the blankets over us.

The blanket falls into place, and I see a little family on the bed of our little home. I see a little girl with black hair and pigtails, and He loves her to death because they're rolling around on the bed together while I watch and laugh, and I think this is paradise, the moment I never want to leave.

But something goes wrong because they roll off the bed and bring the blankets with them, and when they hit the floor, it sounds like something gets squished, and all that's running through my head is _no, no, not her_ , and I go to check on them, but when I pull back the cover, He greets me with wide white eyes and an open mouth. And, and her _eye_ is on His tongue, and I see myself throwing up—no, no, no, I'm _really_ throwing up because I hear Brendon's voice asking me if I'm okay, and fuck, I'm not okay if I'm vomiting.

Everything is so mismatched. I see Him and our little girl's eye on His tongue, and then I see Brendon's fingers in front of my face. I hear Him going "aaahhh" like one would do at a doctor's office, and then He starts chewing, and the eyeball pops, and I gag, and Brendon's continuing to ask me if I'm all right because I'm "oh, no, he's unresponsive" and "fuck, fuck, please, wake up". The music is still playing in the background, but it's calmed down, and the only thing still picking up its regular speed is the storm, so I think we're safe for now.

But I can't see straight, and I'm getting a headache. The thunder rumbles over us. My brain rattles from side to side. Brendon snaps his fingers in my face three or four times. He fixes his glasses. "Gerard?" His voice is fuzzy. The image of Him, of Frank—no, that _walker_ eating the eye flashes before me, and both my mind and body explode.

I'm falling, and I try to grab onto something, but nothing's working. Nothing is here to help me. I attempt once more, and I touch something. I heave myself up, and Frank— _no_ —the walker is there with half a mouth, and its tongue flopping out. It waves its head around, and the tongue hits my face, and the walker gargles and groans, and I let go of its hand and fall and fall and—

Brendon saves me. He swoops down and cradles me to his chest, protecting me from the walker that jumps down and hovers over us. I stare at it with wide eyes as it comes closer, and I wonder why Brendon isn't doing anything because the monster above us stretches out his arms and cradles my face in its slimy hands, and it lifts me off the ground and presses all what's remaining of its mouth to mine in a sickening distortion of a lover's goodbye kiss.

And then, it lets me go, and everything is back to normal. Brendon is holding me, sobbing into my brunet roots, as he mumbles words of comfort and despair under his breath. The music is still playing, and the piano intertwines well with the storm outside. I am lying still, eyes fixated on the ceiling, where I had last seen the creature Frank had turned in to. I take a deep breath, and Brendon shoots up and out of the little dilemma he was having with himself.

"You're okay," he says as a statement and not as a question like most would. He doesn't want me to provide him with another answer; he wants to know that I'm okay, all right, fine. And I am. I give him a nod, and he throws himself at me, pulling me close, and telling me about all the things that ran through his head while I was having my episode. I offer to help him clean up my mess, and he takes it.

"We haven't properly slept in forever," he tries to tell me, as he scrubs the floor with some of the towels from the bathroom. "You were probably just hallucinating." I want to argue, but he thrusts a brown bucket filled with water to my chest and demands that I hold it while he wrings out the cloth.

After we clean up the floor—Brendon doing most of the work—we sit in the bedroom. Brendon's placed the CD player on one of the bedside tables, but I don't think I'll be able to listen to any kind of music in the next couple of weeks. The rain continues to pour, and Brendon turns to stare at the one of the windows I've placed a sheet over. He looks back at me. "I wonder when it's going to stop," he says, pushing the red frames up the bridge of his nose. He digs some more Froot Loops out from the box that he grabbed from the pantry before coming in here. He munches on a piece. "I mean, it hasn't rained this long, since." He screws his face together in thought. "I don't know when the last time was."

I fish out a handful and shove it in my mouth. "When Ryan died."

Brendon pauses. He messes with a loose thread on the comforter. "What did you see when you were… y'know?"

I pop a green one in my mouth and recount all what I've seen, and when I'm done, he's smiling. I go to ask why, but he beats me to the punch. "That's what happened to me—with Ryan."

We grin and finish our little snack. Brendon goes to put up the box, and I lie back and stare at the ceiling, still smiling.

Brendon comes back with a water bottle and tells me we could share, so we don't run out of supplies as quickly. I agree, and after he takes a drink, he climbs onto the bed with me. He sticks his feet under the covers and shivers a bit. He scoots closer to me without permission, but I don't mind. I pull the blankets over us, and he lets out another involuntary shake.

We listen to the rain. I close my eyes and try to think of something happy, like how I'm about to have my first real night of sleep. I may even dream. I get excited and settle down, anticipating.

But Brendon disturbs it. "Hey. Gerard."

I open my eyes. "Yes?"

"Do you think we'll be okay?"

I think it through. And for once, I honestly believe we are. I feel like we can make it through this. The CDC will explain how all of this happened, and I think we will be able to live to the day where they put out a cure, and it'll be the best day of our lives.

So, I turn to Brendon and with a smile, I tell him, "Yeah, we'll be okay."

The storm passes, and birds begin to chirp.

**Author's Note:**

> brendon and gerard were dancing to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rwtvTHPPXc).


End file.
